A Prose Memory / Mother

My mother had a vanity.

On it, atop a mirror framed in gold filigree, she’d placed lipsticks
and powder cases and brushes…

I remember the cool darkness in her bedroom and I think I’d gone in there just to smell these things.

I was mystified by her desk. How important it seemed. On it were some clippings from the Sunday papers of comics which she’d copy just to pass the time.

I loved her then, when I was barely tall enough to see the top of her desk with its heavy brass lamp.

Moments pass into so many others —they lose their precious weight and become so light we lose them, so long gone, they are almost irretrievable.

And yet, now suddenly, I recall how I stood there, small and awed by her hand on every cold item in the dark perfume of her grown up world.

 

BigWhiteBlockMuthaFuckaz

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